High Bias aural fixations
June 29, 2003

HELICOPTER HELICOPTER
Wild Dogs with X-Ray Eyes
(Initial)
Wild Dogs with X-Ray Eyes is the fifth album by Boston quartet Helicopter Helicopter, and how this band has managed to release that many records while remaining under the national radar is a mystery. This is a band with no gimmicks, just a truckload of tight, melodic power pop songs. Frontpersons Chris Zerby and Julie Chadwick harmonize over their own loud guitars, drummer Ned Gallacher and bassist Shawn Setaro keep the rhythms gurgling and the band simply bubbles over with tasty hooks. "Time Machine," "Harsh Light" and "The Misfit" makes fast friends with few spins, and the rest of the tunes aren't far behind in the race for Miss Congeniality. Wild Dogs with X-Ray Eyes would be perfect coming out of radio speakers, without once sounding like it was crafted for that purpose, and that's a talent that's all too rare. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Weezer, Semisonic, Jimmy Eat World

I CAN LICK ANY SONOFABITCH IN THE HOUSE
Put Here to Bleed
(In Music We Trust)
Portland's roots rock thugs in I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch in the House put one of last year's most unexpected pleasures out last year with the debut album Creepy Little Noises, and now they're back with Put Here to Bleed. Head SOB Mike D. (who did time with that notorious combo the 101st Airborne before his stint as a rock & roll miscreant) unleashes another strong set of songs from his working class psyche, full of spit and bile—indeed, he's even angrier than before. "Dear Mr. Heston" takes the NRA head to task with righteous fury ("If you ever saw a 12-year-old boy's brains splattered on a kitchen wall/Well you'd hang your head in shame") and little subtlety ("You rifle totin' whore"); other targets of his disgust include popular alternative rockers ("The Ballad of Courtney Taylor," a less-than-flattering look at the Dandy Warhols bandleader), blind patriotism ("American Fuck Machine"), an apparently personal vendetta ("Twerp") and, well, pretty much everything about the American system ("Things That Fail"). He also finds the wherewithal to roll his characters around in the mire of self-loathing in "Hayward, CA '76," "Sixsixfive" and "La," all of which are unnervingly affecting despite a complete lack of sentimentality. "Gone As They Go" and "To Be Good," while hardly uplifting, interject a surprising tenderness into the broiling anger, just enough the keep D. from seeming like a sourpuss. The band backs up his plainspoken treatises with tough, no-nonsense rock & roll that maximizes his rootsy melodies while slathering them with enough gravel to ruin an undercarriage. Speaking of gravel, D. seems to prefer it to mouthwash; his shredded throat gives each line an authenticity that prettier singers would kill for. This is one songwriter who sings what he means and means what he sings, and this is a band as long on honesty as it is on talent. Put Here to Bleed was put here to wail. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Billy Joe Winghead, the Bottle Rockets, Slobberbone

KATATONIA
Viva Emptiness
(Peaceville)
Katatonia has gone through the strangest changes over the years. Not because the Swedish quintet's creative trajectory is anything unusual—moving from hellish death metal to a slicker, more melodic and, lest we forget, more commercial alternative hard rock sound is hardly a fresh idea. What's odd is that Katatonia just got better as it devolved from fringe to fashionable. Viva Emptiness, the group's sixth album, is its best yet, a seething collection of bitter but catchy paeans to anger and despair. Or maybe denial of same—whenever a song starts to veer too close to morbidity, the power chords kick in. "Second hand impressions/Hand them over so we can let it die," frontman Jonas Renske demands in "Burn the Remembrance"—this is a band that understands the uselessness of despair, even if it still occasionally succumbs to it. The overtly heavy riffs of "Inside the City of Glass" contrast nicely with the almost jangly pop of "Omerta," and the band is as comfortable with crushing weights as floating feathers. The results of the dreamy verses/loud choruses, angst-into-anthemry could get old fast, but Katatonia possesses that quality so lacking in the Stainds of the world: conviction. Renske's vocals skew toward the Nick Drake end of the spectrum, rather than the James Hetfield point, and his resigned, worldweary vocals have the ring of cold, hard truth even with lyrics like "He went too far the fucker/It's not like I owe him money/This is different" from "Criminals." When he sings "I have no right to let go" in "Complicity," you believe him even if you're not sure what he means. Viva Emptiness might fool some alternametal fans in a blind taste test, but let it sink in, and its distinction will reveal itself. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Alice in Chains, Tool, Prong

CHRIS LEE
Cool Rock
(Misra)
Chris Lee is at this moment a critic's darling, known and beloved to a small group of core indie rock geeks, which is usually broadly interpreted to mean that he has no commercial potential. His previous album, the quirky but often brilliant Plays and Sings Torch'd Songs, Charivari Hymns and Oriki Blue-Marches, seemed to bear this out. One listen to his new record Cool Rock, however, and there can be no doubt: Chris Lee is a star. The praise thrown Lee's way in the past has focused mainly on his voice, and it is indeed a thing of beauty, a silky and soulful tenor that caresses a melody with equal parts gentle romance and lusty fervor. But that remarkable throat would mean nothing without quality material, and it's here that Cool Rock really delivers. Lee provides a beautifully melodic set of soul-inflected pop tunes, with strong melodies and stark (but not minimalist) arrangements, plus an excellent take on Mississippi John Hurt's "Nobody Cares For Me." When delivered in that ear-seducing voice, songs like "Bronx Science (Julie Ann)," "(I Was a Teenage) Symphony to God" and the hit-single-in-waiting "Sail On" are simply irresistible, and the ballad "Lately I Want You" absolutely devastating. This kind of talent will not pass without notice for much longer; some major label will get its claws into Lee and try to force him to become the next Dave Matthews (or, worse, the next Justin Timberlake). Lee will no doubt resist such overtures, but he may not make another album as unassumingly modest and quietly brilliant as this one for quite a while. Do yourself a favor and acquire Cool Rock, and let Chris Lee pass from critic's darling to star without the incursion of corporate patronage. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Archer Prewitt, Mark Eitzel, Van Morrison

THE PERNICE BROTHERS
Yours, Mine & Ours
(Ashmont)
A band like the Pernice Brothers is always a pleasure to review, not only because the group is so artistically consistent but also because it keeps getting better. Led by singer/songwriter Joe Pernice (who continues to be referred to as a former member of the Scud Mountain Boys, even though he's been leader of the Pernice Brothers for five years), the sextet has two prior platters of pure pop greatness under its belt already, but with Yours, Mine & Ours it may have bested itself. The band's style has only infinitesimally changed; Pernice still writes lush, emotionally unsteady pop songs, but the group gives them a tiny bit more of a kick here. Nothing you'd call aggressive, mind you, but perhaps drummer Mike Belitsky's concurrent membership in the hard-rocking Sadies is paying off some dividends on propulsive tunes like "One Foot in the Grave," "Sometimes I Remember" and "The Weakest Shade of Blue." That said, the heart of the album is in Pernice's gently melodic examinations of emotional confusion; romance is never easy for Pernice's lovestruck characters. "Sometimes this sweet life feels like it's never been as bad as it is tomorrow," he sighs in the subtlely melancholic "Baby in Two," before lamenting "I wish I knew a sure simple way to reach you." He claims "I'm holding on/Let me let go/I need to love someone" in "How to Live Alone," but the minor key pop behind the lines and the resigned croon delivering them belies any real hope. But all this misery is delivered sweetly with crystal clear production and the most instantly engaging melodies Pernice has to date composed. "Number Two," "Waiting for the Universe" and "Blinded by the Stars" feature hearts on sleeves and will put smiles on faces. The Pernice Brothers publish near-perfect pop on Yours, Mine & Ours. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Ken Stringfellow, Elliott Smith, John Cunningham

RUBBER CITY REBELS
Pierce My Brain
(Smog Veil)
Pierce My Brain, the latest hunk of snot from the Rubber City Rebels, is simply one of the best and most authentic punk rock records in recent memory. And for good reason—the Akron, OH-based Rebels have been doing this since the original wave of punk in the late 70s; they know basic, no-frills punk when they hear it. Simple hard rock licks, three-chord walls, four-to-the-floor rhythms, vocals dripping with that uniquely punk mixture of self-loathing, contempt and rage—when brought to bear on good material the formula can be devastating, and the Rebels have got the tunes to make it sound fresh and vital again. Snarler Rod Firestone, string-wrangler Buzz Clic and the boys pay tribute to a fallen comrade ("Dead Boy," a eulogy for Stiv Bators), nod to current events ("Your Television Lies," "Grip of Fear," "Blowout at 108," which references the danger of Firestone's namesake tires) and cover the classics (a rousing take on the Music Machine's "Talk Talk") Most of all, the band offers a combination middle finger/sloppy grin in the direction of the state of contemporary punk with catchy, sneering cuts like "Punk Daddy" ("Old school rules, fool!"), "Pinhead," "I Don't Wanna Be a Punk No More" and the title track. The quartet doesn't do anything fancy—no guest stars, no celebrity endorsements, no "name" producer—it just gets down and dirty to the business of rocking the fuck out. Pierce My Brain is a headbangin', slam-dancin,' air guitarin', (middle) finger-pointin' good time. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: the Dictators, the Sex Pistols, the Ramones

SOUTHERN GUN CULTURE
/SUPER HEAVY GOAT ASS
Super Heavy Goat Ass/Southern Gun Culture
(Arclight)
This split CD presents an eight-pack of pure Texas crude, as Austin-based heavy rockers Southern Gun Culture and Super Heavy Goat Ass kick the shit out of everything in sight with their steel-toed cowboy boots. SGC leans more toward the Black Sabbath end of the so-called stoner rock line, its power trio chops coming down on the unsuspecting like dinosaur footfalls. Drummer Trent Parker (who also hammers the traps for SHGA) has a sense of swing rare in metal, making the tunes more buoyant than usual for this genre. Guitarist Danny G and bassist Amber L keep the melodies forefront despite the distortion and feedback, and tunes like "Present" and "Martyr" will satisfyingly scratch that headbanging itch. Super Heavy Goat Ass hoes much the same road, with vocals a bit more monstrous and a touch of oldtime boogie. Guitarists Russell Abbot and Derek Halfmann supply the snarling riffs while Parker and bassist Brent Boepple lay down that southern-fried groove. The songwriting isn't quite as consistent as that of SGC, but when the band is barreling full-throttle down the highway during "Defender" and "Automatic" you may not much care. As someone once said on a Jeff Beck record, "Balls deluxe!" Michael Toland

For fans of: Nebula, Sixty Watt Shaman, Fireball Ministry

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